


Attached

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Modification, Crack, M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up with tentacles.  Then things get <i>weird</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attached

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), for "tentacles" as my wildcard square. Features unauthorised body modification (addition of tentacles). Features tentacle sex. This is, most assuredly, crack. Is not intended to reflect my personal view of the motel industry. Beta'd by [](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/profile)[ellethill](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/). Spoilers for season 5, some very vague for season 6.

Dean wakes from a nightmare about snakes in his bed to… yeah. He pinches himself several times, hard, but it unfortunately seems that he is, in fact, awake. So all those _things_ moving around down there… Dean gulps and swats at the switch for the bedside lamp.

From the next bed, Sam blinks at him in the sudden yellow light. And fuck, Dean must look scared, because Sammy’s looking worried.

Dean kicks the covers off with a grunt of disgust, and there they are, writhing like eels, spilling out of his boxers…

“Dude,” Sam says sleepily. “What the _fuck?_ ”

Dean girds his metaphorical loins, reaches down, grabs one of the things—it’s not slimy like he would have thought, just kinda smooth and warm—and gives a sharp tug. Which fucking hurts. “Definitely attached,” he mutters. “I grew, like, tendrils or something?”

Sam’s out of bed and across the room in seconds, moving the way Dean imagines he would if he’d just heard one of his professors had scheduled an extra optional botany lab or something. Or, you know, like he was competing in the nerd olympics.

Should it be weird that his baby brother just casually pulls down his boxers without asking? Perhaps it would be weirder if he _had_ asked? Perhaps the whole thing would be less weird if Dean didn’t focus so much on how it could be weirder, less weird, or just differently weird?

“Dean,” Sam says, in the kind of voice you use when you don’t want to startle Bambi, “you’ve grown five tentacles from your groin. Must be a curse or… I dunno, something.”

“Timeless words of wisdom there, champ. My hero!”

“Quit it, Dean. We need to search the place for hex bags in case it’s witches and they’re not done with you yet.”

But he doesn’t let Dean get up and help with that, oh, no. Gotta treat him like he’s wounded. Well, maybe he is, but he’s choosing to think of it as more like an unrequested surgical enhancement. Like waking up and finding you’d been liposucked. Not that he needs any of that shit. He’s quite happy with his body fat percentage, thanks muchly, and so are the ladies. And also quite a few dudes, and dudes are, in Dean’s experience, pickier about that stuff.

The search for hex bags doesn’t produce anything more interesting than dust bunnies and what might just be a desiccated rodent left to mummify quietly behind the dresser. God, motels suck.

Next up is a call to their charming wingman. There’s no answer except for a faint _pop_ as a slip of paper appears, floating down towards Sam’s outstretched hand.

“Huh,” he says, peering at it.

“Note from on high?”

Sam’s eyebrows head skywards. “Heavenly telegram.”

Dean smirks. “Delivered by Western Orthodox Union, I suppose?”

Sam merely tuts at this brilliance, and reads aloud. “HELLO SAM AND DEAN STOP CANNOT COME AT ONCE STOP BUSY WITH CELESTIAL CIVIL WAR ET CETERA STOP ENDEAVOUR TO SEE YOU WITHIN TWO “HOURS” STOP PLEASE LEAVE DETAILS OF INTENDED DESTINATION IF LEAVING CURRENT LOCATION BEFORE MY ARRIVAL STOP CASTIEL.”

Two hours? Dean _hates_ waiting. And research, which is what Sam will inevitably suggest to fill in the time. “Think I’m gonna call Bobby,” he says, before Sam can suggest libraries and books and weird internet sites.

“Yeah,” Sam says. He sits down by his computer, but just sits there, tapping his huge fingers on the tabletop, while Dean makes his phone call and of course gets no joy. Well, unless you count nearly losing an eardrum from Bobby screeching down the phone line about idjits as joy, that is.

It transpires that the tentacles do not like being asked to behave or turn invisible, so there’s no possibility of Dean going out to any libraries. Sam goes alone, therefore, and returns a half hour later with a depressingly small sheaf of photocopies and a defeated expression. Dean stops idly trying to get his tentacles to respond to his commands—wouldn’t it be fucking awesome to be able to handle five extra guns at once? He could fire salt rounds in every direction!—to commiserate with the Samster.

Castiel finally shows up just as Dean’s thinking of taking a nap. And _stares_ at Dean’s crotch like it’s something his God and his Bible never prepared him for. Which is kind of amusing, actually. Dean just possibly might commit a few obscene acts of pelvic thrustage just to see if he can get the guy to blush. You know, for science.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Cas says, after much thinking (and a wee bit of lip nibbling, which Dean politely looked away from. Mostly). “The phenomenon is new to me. And most interesting.”

“Interesting?” Dean repeats, somehow feeling he’s been insulted.

“May I touch them?” Cas says.

So Dean unwraps the blanket he’s been using to conceal his modesty since the elastic in his boxers snapped, sits on the bed and spreads his legs.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, kneels down between his legs (Sam gasps audibly at the sight) and puts his hands on Dean’s five squirmy tentacles of doom. It’s, um, a little frightening how much Dean’s original tentacle, namely Dean Peenchester, likes the attention. And then Cas starts basically giving tentacle number four a handjob, and ohfuckgod that’s—

“They are sensitive?” Cas inquires, still stroking that one lucky squirmy giant penis-substitute.

Dean nods dumbly, panting for breath against that unexpected flood of pleasure.

Cas goes suddenly pink and withdraws his hand, clambers hurriedly to his feet. “I believe you are in no danger. I must return to Heaven to conduct further research.” And he’s gone, just like that.

Dean wants to whimper, just a little bit. Instead, he looks over at Sam, who’s still leaning against the fake-wood-panelled wall, hands in jeans pockets, his cheeks faintly flushed. Sam shrugs like he, also, hasn’t got a damn clue what to make of that.

“Do you get the impression he knew more than he was saying?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam says. And then, “Put some clothes on, would you? It’s disconcerting, having your fifteen hundred dicks mexican-waving at me.”

Dean looks down at his lap as if to issue a scolding, then realises what he’s doing and glares at Sam instead. “Dude, what happened to unconditional love?”

Sam mutters something about not being mutually incompatible and starts helpfully rooting through Dean’s duffle. He comes up with an ancient pair of khaki sweats, and Dean finds with some relief that he _is_ able to jam all his junk in there without too much discomfort. He sure ain’t gonna be going out in public like this, though. Unless he can maybe tape the things down along his legs or something? Right then, they give a sudden collective roiling squirm, as if objecting to the thought.

***

Dean’s on research duty. All day. Which is boring.

So it’s just possible he holes up in the bathroom for an hour with a copy of _Busty Asian Beauties_ and investigates ways in which his brand new tentacles can be used to enhance a good jerk-off session. You know, for science.

***

“There is good news and bad news,” Castiel says, appearing suddenly in the motel room while they’re chowing down on fried chicken. Well, Dean is. Sam’s enjoying the dubious vegetarian option and staring at Dean’s mouth like he knows what he really wants to eat isn’t some lettuce-and-crap-wrap.

“Good news first,” Dean says, grabbing up a paper napkin to wipe his fingers and mouth as he turns.

Castiel straightens his shoulders. “My brother Gabriel is not quite as dead as we all believed.”

“Oh,” Sam says. His expression softens, goes kinda wistful.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “So this—” he waves at his groin. Several tentacles are peeking out over the top of his waistband as if hoping to be fed “—is a Trick, then?”

“Unfortunately not. Nor is it a lesson or a game.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“I’m very sorry, Dean,” Castiel says gravely. “It’s a gift.”

“A gift?”

“For me. It would be churlish to express any desire to return it. One does not show churlishness to an archangel. They are Heaven’s deadliest—”

“Bullshit,” Dean says. “You should just—”

“Cas?” Sam puts in gently. “How exactly is this a gift? Could you explain a bit, please?”

“I…”

“Or, um, is this something you should talk to Dean alone about?”

Castiel takes a deep breath and spits it all out in a rush. “I believe that Gabriel has transformed Dean into the ideal mate for my true form.”

Dean blinks. “Your true form has tentacles?”

“No, Dean. It has one large pair of wings, with a hundred million pearly-white feathers. And five genital orifices into which tentacles may be inserted to engender physical pleasure.” He’s turned bright red, if you can believe that. Dean has to stare quite hard for quite a while before he does. “And one which is more suitable for…” He gestures in a way that means nothing to anyone.

“What was he THINKING? I can’t even look on your true form without my eyes burning out , can I? So how are we supposed to, you know?” It’s only when he spies the look on Sam’s face that Dean realises his first question should probably have been about why Gabriel might want to set Castiel up with _Dean_ , of all beings in the universe.

“I believe Gabriel may have attended to _that_ , also. We’ll have to investigate. Is that fried chicken? My vessel seems convinced that consuming some would make me feel better.”

Dean slides the box across the table towards him. “Knock yourself out.”

***

After dinner, Castiel zaps Dean away to a high, lonely cliff-top somewhere. The huge, silvery full moon is reflected, eerie and broken by waves, in the water below. When he turns to look for Cas, he sees him stretched out on the grass, looking completely blank.

“I’m no longer in there, Dean,” says a voice which is unlike Cas and yet somehow more like him than Dean’s ever heard. “You are hearing my true voice. Does it pain you?”

“Nope. It’s kinda pretty, actually.”

And then there’s light behind him, so bright it’s like the sun’s suddenly come out in the middle of the night. He looks, and an odd rush of deja vu goes through him. He doesn’t remember ever seeing an angel in its true form before, and yet…

The bright, white, ten-foot tall white-winged thing that is Castiel is very, very familiar. It holds its arm out, and Dean reaches out without a single thought to take its hand. Bliss like he’s never known slides through his body from that one point of contact. It’s something like some of the finer pharmaceutical products he’s tried in his time, only purer, somehow, and much more intense. He wants to say something, but can’t remember how. His tentacles twitch, straining towards Castiel.

“I believe that answers that question,” Castiel says, and then he’s gone, gone in a bolt of bright light towards the empty shell that used to house Jimmy Novak. There’s a moment of anxious stillness, and then Cas sits up, loosens his tie a little bit further, looks up at Dean.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean says, and points to where Cas—other Cas—was standing just moments ago. “I mean…” He doesn’t know _what_ he means.

“Vessels often respond thus to angels’ true forms. I hope the effect won’t influence any decisions you might be making.”

Dean frowns at him. “You think I’m gonna jump your bones because of how you look when you’re out of your skin?” Actually, now that he thinks about it… _No_. He’d kinda been leaning in that direction even before he woke up with tentacles and got to see him some nekkid Cas.

“I think,” Cas says carefully, “that you might be swayed by the potential for pleasure into making ill-thought-out decisions.”

Dean huffs, then joins him in sitting on the grass. “That’s actually how it usually happens, dude. How many couples you know got together because it was, I dunno, logical or something and not because they totally wanted each other in all kinds of freaky ways?”

“The incidence of sensible decision-making in regards to marriage has certainly fallen markedly since the invention of romantic love in the sixteenth century Anno Domini,” Cas agrees. Or jokes, maybe. Dean isn’t too sure.

“I’m guessing angels don’t do casual sex?”

Cas peers at him in the moonlight. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Hypothetically, could you and I fuck around and then decide it doesn’t work? Or do we have to get, like, angelically soul-bounded for eternity or something before I can get my hands on your sweet ass?” He’s really not sure how he got from waking up with tentacles this morning to discussing marriage with an angel tonight. Such are the mysteries of Dean Winchester’s life.

“Dean,” Castiel says, sounding almost pitying, “if you and I once make love, you will never want to stop. You must be sure first.”

After that, it’s oddly difficult to swallow.

***

“Cas kinda sorta asked me to marry him,” Dean says, as soon as he’s alone with his brother once more. “Can we please go kill something? I have _feelings_ to expend.”

Sam tries to display amusement, confusion, and encouragement all at once. Fortunately, he has a big face. “There’s a gym down the block. Let’s get you a date with a punching bag. Just, uh, put on a long coat or something and tell the boys to behave a while.”

Sometimes Dean thinks he should marry _Sam_. You know, if he wasn’t his brother. And so fucking annoying all the time. Well, half the time. Three quarters.

***

_Busty Asian Beauties_ seems to be losing its magic. The latest issue is just… Dean keeps having to shrug off weird random thoughts like that it would be a hundred percent better with more trench-coats.

***

“So, are you, you know, bisexual?” Sam asks, when he returns to their motel room with beer and plenty of it.

Dean shrugs awkwardly. “Little bit, I guess.”

“Okay. Cool. Did not know that. You know, I actually experimented a bit in college. There was this guy, Damian, with the most gigantic—”

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re going to finish that sentence, I’m gonna need you to beer me. And keep ‘em coming.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he also smiles.

***

They try sex first the old-fashioned way. Well, the old-fashioned way where Castiel’s wearing a body that used to belong to someone else and Dean has, you know, horny tentacles aplenty.

The tentacles _like_ Cas. They seem to want to… tickle him. But Dean notices a distinct lack of objection from the angelic quarter. So he just kisses Cas lazily, wordlessly showing him the ropes, while his tentacles roam gently over Cas’s body and seem somehow to tickle them both.

“You are much more attractive with tentacles, Dean,” Cas says, right into his mouth.

Dean nips his lower lip for that.

There’s no penetration of any orifices, tentacular or otherwise, that night, they just rub and grind together, kissing, murmuring, hands and tentacles roaming, until Cas comes with a cry of complete surprise and Dean rapidly follows suit, more quietly.

It’s awesome, and Dean’s obliged to fist-pump the air. With two fists. And five wannabes.

“Hey,” Dean says at last, as they’re lying there sated and warm and stupid in the aftermath, “do you think it would offend your big dorky brother’s delicate sensibilities if we were to ask about making these fuckers invisible? Or so they’d fold away into another realm like your wings do? I’d kinda like to be able to go out in public again without making folks think the Martian invasion is here. Or that I’m smuggling endangered anacondas or something.”

“I’ll inquire,” Cas says. “I believe he owes me at least that much of a favour, since I helped to reconstitute his preferred vessel from assorted minced remains and the discarded skin flakes of family members.”

“Uh,” Dean says, and he can just fucking _feel_ his face going pink, “you could always… ask him to do it as an engagement gift?”

He’s never seen Castiel smile so bright.

***

Gabriel shows up to the wedding, and when Cas takes it into his head to conjure and throw a bouquet because he believes that’s the tradition, it’s Gabriel who catches it, crowing and dancing in triumph. And heads, lips first, right for Sam. Dean smirks, and his tentacles slip out of their other-dimensional slumber to fondle Castiel in his tux.

 

***END***


End file.
